


The Unrighteous Bible

by Amiril



Series: Amiril Fic (Not Cover Art) [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1990 Armegeddon't, Biblical Reinterpretation, M/M, POV Outsider, You can't convince me that there isn't weird folklore and mythology around these two, each chapter is a stand-alone, happily cherry-picking my favorite parts of show and book canon and no one can stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amiril/pseuds/Amiril
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have been walking the earth for six thousand years. Of course people are going to notice.





	1. Chapter 1

Cain’s world is this:

His brother, his mother, his father, a house, and the soil. 

His brother is better with the animals. He talks to them as he leads them to graze—“fine weather we’re having, yes it is, I’m sure that bird didn’t know you were having a rough day when it took a crap on you, just shake it off, there’s a good fellow—” and the creatures can’t understand him, but they listen all the same. 

They never listen to Cain. He prefers the field, with its soft dirt. He can make anything grow there: he coaxes grains and fruits and flowers out of the ground, and he doesn’t need to talk to them to do it. He only needs time, and care, and rain. When he’s feeling indulgent, he grows things just for the sake of it. Flowers that won’t feed him, and trees that do nothing but bring shade. His mother smiles when he shows her.

Their parents are never quite sure what to make of them, Cain and Abel. The brothers try not to hold it against them: their parents were never children.

Still, if Cain ever has a son—and he’s not quite sure if he can, considering that, as far as his parents have managed to tell him, it takes two types of people to do that—he makes a mental note to appreciate his interests, whatever they may be.

(Of course, She appreciates his interests, but She seems even more interested in Abel’s sheep. It’s probably because She can’t smell them.)

Finally, there’s the house. It’s a small thing, but it’s never occurred to any of them to ask for bigger. The world is already big enough.

At night, they gather around the fireplace, where a sword burns.

Unlike the fires Abel makes when he’s off with the sheep, or Cain makes when he’s in the fields late at night, the sword's fire is considerate enough to cook their food and warm the house without setting alight any stray branches or toes that happen to get close to it.

“This was a gift from an angel,” their mother had told them when they were children. “Er, if God ever asks, don’t mention it, alright? I don’t think the angel was actually supposed to give it to us, and I’d hate to get him in trouble.”

This was a perfectly reasonable request. God sometimes popped by to check in, and Cain and Abel had grown up so used to the sky occasionally hollering things like _THAT BABY TEETH STRATEGY IS WORKING WELL, I HOPE?_ Or _IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU MADE A SACRIFICE— YOU MUST BE TOO BUSY FOR LITTLE OLD ME, WHO CREATED YOUR PARENTS AND YOU BY EXTENSION AND ALSO THE WORLD, NOT THAT BIG A DEAL, REALLY, TOTALLY UNDERSTAND IF YOU FORGOT_ (and, on a far-off day in the future, _WHERE’S ABEL? I WANT TO RUN THIS ‘COW’ THING BY HIM. ANY IDEA WHERE HE RAN OFF TO? CAIN? CAIN???)_

The tone of some of these questions meant that they had, in a roundabout sense, been lying to God since they were children. Why, losing their baby teeth was just _wonderful,_ nothing like having a wobbly tooth in the mouth for a few weeks, much better than the teeth just growing like their skulls did— oh the sacrifice hadn’t slipped their minds they just wanted to make sure it was _perfect—_

Several years before, their parents had hidden in the bushes and pointed fingers.

You could say it ran in the family.

“What was he like?” Cain thinks to ask, many years later. “The angel.”

His mother is sitting near the fire, doing something with sticks and the spun wool of Abel’s sheep. “I didn’t know him well, really. He just stood up on the wall of the Garden most of the time, sword flaming away. I’m not really sure if he was supposed to be watching _us,_ or making sure nothing got in, though I don’t see how anything could have made it through those walls.”

“You made it out.”

“We did.”

One of the sticks snaps, and Eve scowls at it before chucking it into the fire. The sword burns it for her, and she proceeds to unravel her work and invent crochet.

“The angel?” Cain prompts.

“Super pale man,” she says. “ _Weirdly_ pale, if we’re being honest. He had less hair than me but more hair than your father. We never really interacted with him, until the end there—he seemed rather flustered about the whole thing. I suppose he might have been there to stop us from, well, doing what we did, but he gave us the sword anyway. Which was good, because we were set upon by a lion not too long after we left. You know—” she pauses, examining the mess in her lap that will someday evolve into the treble stitch. “I thought he might have been lonely, to be honest. Your father and I had each other, of course, and I was friends with the serpent, and every other creature got along famously—but he just stood there up on his wall, all alone. There were a couple other angels on the other side, and they talked to each other, but never to him.”

“Never?” that does sound lonely. There aren’t a lot of options for companionship, in Cain’s world, and of course there are days he wished his whole family would just disappear and leave him some peace and quiet, but to have them off somewhere without him? That would be awful.

“Not until the end, at any rate. There was someone with him when we were leaving—another angel, I suppose. I saw them standing close when the rain started. I liked to imagine that they were friends. I don’t like to think of him all alone, without even his sword.”

Cain looks back to the sword in question, burning happily on the grate.

He wonders—though it’s many years before he’ll find out—what would happen if he were to pick it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Adam and Eve probably had a lot more than two children, but since Seth was born after Abel died, and Adam lived 800 years after that, we're just going to assume, for the sake of clarity, that the rest of them all came later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan looks into the face of David, killer of Goliath, God’s chosen, the most beautiful boy ever seen in these parts, and says, “you are so full of shit.”

Jonathan looks into the face of David, killer of Goliath, God’s chosen, the most beautiful boy ever seen in these parts, and says, “you are so full of shit.”

“I am not!”

“Are too!”

“I never heard that,” Jonathan insists. “Angels are scarier than that.”

David resumes strumming his harp. Not a song, just the occasional note, as though he thinks that will get Jonathan to shut up. “There’ve got to be lots of different types of angels, just like there’s lots of different types of people, or different types of cat—”

“Cat?”

“Well, you know. Some of them like it when you rub their heads, and some of them like fish, and some are gray or black or what have you. They’re all different, in little ways. Like people.”

“You’re certainly more different than most,” Jonathan says, and David nearly shoves him off the short wall they’ve been sitting on. Jonathan shoves him back, but David cannot be moved, so he ends up mostly displacing himself.

It’s juvenile, perhaps. But there’s no one here to watch. No one to say they’re behaving too much like children, or to suspect they’re behaving too much like the wrong sort of adults. There’s just the quiet of the trees, the distant walls of the palace, and the two of them.

“Do you want to hear the story or not?” David asks, voice harsh even as his gentle hands keep Jonathan from falling.

Jonathan says, “oh, go on then,” when what he really thinks is that of course he wants to hear David’s story. He always wants to hear David’s stories. The true ones, the false ones— they’re all fleeting insights into David’s mind, little pieces of him, and Jonathan holds them close.

He tries not to worry that they’ll be the only parts of David he gets to keep. He doesn’t know exactly what’s coming, but he knows how destiny works. He knows how his father works.

“It was during the Forty Years,” David says, still occasionally strumming, though he has yet to turn the story into anything resembling a song. “We were walking through the desert, tired and hungry. You know. The usual stuff. I’ll add that in later.”

Jonathan smiles. “So you admit you’re making it up.”

“Well, I’m going to have to set the scene, aren’t I? It’s not really making it up— just because I don’t know _specifically_ how tired and hungry they were at that point doesn’t mean they weren’t. You try walking for forty years.”

Being born after that is something Jonathan has always been grateful for. He concedes the point.

“So anyway, like I told you before, an angel showed up. Not a scary, fiery one with a message from the Lord: no one even knew what he was, at first. But eventually, they realized that there was one man not getting as dusty as the rest of them, as hungry as the rest of them, as tired as the rest of them. He was the best at finding food, or water— he would say ‘I think this is a good place to dig,’ and sure enough, water would come rushing from the ground.” He plucks a few more notes, humming for a moment, and Jonathan turns so that he is lying along the wall, his head a few inches from David’s thigh.

It’s lovely and quiet, here.

“One day, they discovered a demon in the camp. Walking among the people, sowing discord. Starting fights. The angel recognized him immediately, and drew a flaming sword. The demon raised a weapon of his own, and they fought a vicious battle. The angel prevailed, and he cast the demon out, banishing him to the Northern lands.”

Someone told Jonathan once that angels are beings of love, but if they are, they love the way Jonathan’s father loves. Distantly, conditionally, and not enough to ever alter their plans.

“Did the angel stay?” Jonathan asks. “Seems like we’d have heard of him, if he stayed.”

“He didn’t. His purpose had been served, the demon found. Cast out, but still able to cause trouble somewhere else. So the angel bid his farewells, and he followed his nemesis in the hopes of defeating him once and for all.”

Seems a lonely way to live, constantly chasing a rival that can’t be killed.

Jonathan rests his arm over his eyes, to try and keep the sun from turning the inside of his eyelids orange. “Where did you hear this story?”

“From Tam’s mother, who heard it from hers, who heard it from her… aunt, I believe? They’ve been passing it down for generations, in the family.”

“And they never wrote it down? Or told anyone but you?”

David shrugs. “Well, there was a lot going on.”

There are infinite moments that will be lost to history. Jonathan’s whole life, probably, within a couple generations.

But not David.

History will take him, history will claim him.

But Jonathan will keep this moment, and he’ll keep this story.

Even if he’s sure it’s sheep shit.

* * *

FOUR HUNDRED YEARS EARLIER

_That business with the golden calf— that was you?_

I thought it would be funny! I didn’t realize Moses would stab people over it— and I didn’t tempt _Aaron,_ and he’s the one who made it, so if Moses should be stabbing anyone shouldn’t it be him—

_Well— well they knew they weren_ _’t supposed to._

Did they? She hadn’t written the rules down yet.

_It was implied. And I don't_ _think we need to discuss it._

Fine. Fine! I’m tired of this anyway. I’m thinking about going to see what the Hitties are up to. Let me know when these guys finally figure out where they’re going.

_I will not._

….

….

 _Excuse me, miss— what_ _’s your name?_

**Chavah.**

_Chavah. Of course it is. How do I always— never mind. I suppose I must go after him, prevent him from causing some other chaos. Would you do me a favor and not tell anyone about this?_

**Can I tell my sister?**

_Yes, yes, alright. If you say I still had— I mean,_ have _— a flaming sword. Er._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “To Sir Aziraphale. Bravest Knight of the Round Table.”

Arthur raises a glass. “To Sir Aziraphale. Bravest Knight of the Round Table.”

“To Aziraphale,” the rest echo, drinking, and thinking something along the lines of _bravest? Brav_ est? _What about me?_

“Weirdest knight at the round table, more like,” Lamorak says, as though everyone there doesn’t know about how he tries to train mice and can’t stand it when his socks don’t match. “Not that that’s a bad thing!” he adds, at Arthur’s disapproving expression. “Really. Weird is good, normal is boring, _we_ know that. I’m just saying. He was… odd. In a loveable way.” He proceeds to take a large bite of meat, frantically wiping juice from his chin as an excuse to stop speaking.

Kay laughs. “Remember when you spilled a cup of tea near a book, and he just about lost his mind?”

“Noo—ooh—t—book!”

“None got on the book? Luckily for you, or he’d have disemboweled you.”

“Please,” Gawain says. “He never disemboweled anybody. I’ve never seen a man so good with a sword hate fighting so much. Did anyone ever see him actually hurt someone? _Ever_?”

They all think hard on this.

“He nearly broke Lancelot’s arm on the training court once,” Bors says thoughtfully. “Teaching him that defensive trick, remember? The one that you could never learn?”

“ _Nearly,_ ” Lancelot says. “My arm was fine. It only hurt for a moment, really.”

“Exactly. Outside of training us to be our best selves, he always tried to talk his way out of things.”

“A braver approach than fighting, sometimes.” Arthur says as though it’s a great pearl of wisdom and not an attempt to return this meal to the solemnness which a fallen knight deserves. “Peace can be far more difficult than war.”

“He tried to talk Mordred down though. _Mordred._ It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed.”

“When the time came for him to fight, he fought. He died fighting. He was noble to the last.” Again Arthur raises his cup. “To Sir Azirapahale,” he says again, and again they drink. “It’s a shame we have no body to bury, but we can perhaps find some of his things— Galahad, perhaps you could go through his room tomorrow, find something of significance.”

It’s not framed as a request, but Galahad shrugs. “I suppose it will help us keep up appearances.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come now.” He looks around the table, at the morose faces of the men. “We don’t really think he’s dead, do we?”

They look at each other.

“His squire saw him and the Black Knight go over the cliff into the lake during their fight,” Lamorak says. “In full armor and everything. It would take a miracle to survive that.”

“Three miracles at least— surviving the fall, getting out of the armor, making it to shore.” Kay counts them off on his fingers. “Not a chance.”

“You’re all idiots. You excluded, of course, your majesty.”

Arthur nods, accepting his exclusion.

“How could he be alive?” Lancelot asks. “Unless the squire was lying.”

“Well he wasn’t human, was he?”

Silence.

Galahad looks at the ceiling. It’s a nice ceiling. Vaulted stone, neat paintings of great deeds. They’d bungled the faces a bit, but the knights on the ceiling look more intelligent than the ones sitting around the table, who clearly have no observational prowess whatsoever.

“Fuck you mean, he wasn’t human?” Lamorak cowers under Arthur’s stare. “Sorry, my lord. I meant, pray tell, what dost thou mean?”

“Come now. He broke your arm, Lance, and it healed in a moment. And he wasn’t the only one— he kicked all of our asses up and down the training courts, but none of the bruises he gave us ever lasted. He walked into a hail of arrows, and all of them just barely missed him. He always took the watch, when we were out, and when he slept— did he ever snore, or move in his sleep, or dream? Did he ever seem interested in women?”

“Well, you’ve never been interested in women neither,” Bors says, “that one doesn’t mean anything.”

Galahad scowls. “Just because we don’t all have rope collections in our bedchambers—”

“Those are for _practice._ To practice _escaping?_ In case I’m ever captured by enemies?”

“ _As I was saying._ Remember that time a whole village of devil worshipers decided to turn over a new leaf after a half-hour chat with him? Or when we were all down with the flux, and it never touched him? Or when he drank nearly half a barrel of our finest mead and then we got set upon by a group of Celts who mistook us for cattle thieves and he stood up and defended us like he’d never even seen alcohol in his life, much less drank it? And he’s been here for at least a decade— did he ever age? A new wrinkle? A tired knee? Old wounds flaring up? Never.” 

“I suppose that was rather odd, now that you mention it,” Lancelot says faintly. He pours himself more mead.

“And we haven’t notified his family of his death. He’s never mentioned a family. No mother, father, brothers, sisters— where is he from?”

“Southeast somewhere,” Bors says. “I guess he never mentioned a place.”

The silence is slightly more embarrassed this time.

“What do you think he is?” Lamorak asks.

Galahad shrugs. “I’m sure I don’t know. We can ask him, if he comes back.”

“ _If?_ ”

“If Galahad is right, and we were in the presence of some… other being, be it fae or divine, then surely he could have dealt with the Black Knight just as he did the other threats,” Arthur says thoughtfully. “But instead he went out to duel him. Either died, or staged his death. Perhaps his time with us was complete, and we were smaller part of a much longer tale.”

“Us, a side plot?” Lamorak laughs. “We’re the Knights of the fucking Round Table.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry. The Knights of the… fun Round Table? We aren’t a small part of any tale.”

“Well, the rest of us are a small part of that song about the Green Knight,” Lancelot says.

“Only because I was the one who did the heavy lifting there.”

Lancelot raises his cup to Gawain. “And some very good lifting you did. Do tell him hello, next time you see him.”

Arthur considers trying to divert this into a lesson about hubris, but it seems like a lot of effort, and he’s had a rather trying day. His friend died, or possibly faked his death, and he’d missed quite a series of miracles under his own nose. So instead he raises his cup. “To Aziraphale!” he says, for the third time. “And to the best of luck on his journey, wherever he is now.”

* * *

**EARLIER THAT DAY**

_Remember when I said we could go somewhere less damp? Less damp was the key._

Well I didn’t see _you_ come up with a better plan! This closes the story on both of our personas here rather nicely, I think.

_Yeah, yeah. Eugh. I think there’s algae in my trousers._

What are you doing?

_What’s it look like? I’m wringing out these clothes. Feel free to avert your eyes, Angel._

Er. Yes. Well then. Right.

_…._

....

Fancy a spot of lunch?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “—Rosso says he’s always lurking around the edges of fights. Never gets in ‘em, just hangs out and watches.”

If that motherfucker from Caravaggio even _thinks_ about going near an artichoke, then damn him, and damn the law— Letta is going to murder him where he stands. He shouldn’t even be allowed back in La Maddalena after the Artichoke Incident of 1604. He wouldn’t be, if Signor Donato had any balls. But no, here they are, Michelangelo Merisi and some of his miscreant friends, drinking and eating as though nothing had ever happened.

The knife she’s holding seems to have gotten heavier. Sharper. She looks at it, and imagines stabbing it into his face—

And then she shakes her head.

It would just make a mess.

The painters will live to paint another day, much good may it do them. Living their lives in the houses of the nobility, buggering young men and going on about _depth_ and _symbolism_ whatever other shit they talk about when they aren’t writing mean poems about each other. It’s not like _she_ _’s_ ever seen one of their so-called masterpieces, although one particularly audacious artist had offered a sketch of the restaurant in lieu of payment. Exposure, he’d called it.

Ugh.

She puts Merisi’s food in front of him with a bit more slam than necessary, hoping he heeds the warning in her eyes.

“—Rosso says he’s always lurking around the edges of fights. Never gets in ‘em, just hangs out and watches,” one of his friends is saying.

Ah. They’ve noticed Signor Crowley, then. He’s sitting alone in the corner, seemingly minding his own business, but Letta is sure he can hear what they're saying. He always seems to know.

“Well, he spends most of the year in England, doesn’t he? They’re weird up there,” Merisi says.

 _You_ _’re all are pretty weird yourselves,_ Letta thinks, but she doesn’t say it because _she_ has better manners than to talk shit about someone where they can hear her.

Crowley’s an odd one, right enough, but to her knowledge _he_ _’s_ never thrown plates in an artichoke-inspired tantrum. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t, of course: Signor Crowley spends most of his time up North, as far as Letta can tell, only coming by Rome for a month or two at a time. He doesn’t even come seasonally, like many rich folk— she’d last seen him maybe three years ago now, in winter. And before that it was, what, two summers prior? He comes to town, he lingers around the edges of everyone’s lives, and then he leaves with no warning. It’s peculiar, is what it is, but she’s never asked him what he does in between visits. She’s not sure she wants to know.

She saw a flash of yellow behind his glasses when she took his order once. And maybe yellow eyes are common enough in England— it’s not like she’s ever been there— but it unsettles her just the same.

Diana next door says he’s got something of the Devil about him. Letta doesn’t want to believe it, because he’s never been anything but polite to her, but she can’t deny that he brings a certain amount of chaos with him. But this is Rome. It’s always chaos. Merisi and his friends get into enough fights whether or not Crowley is hanging about.

They’re assholes, really. Merisi carries a sword even though he’s not allowed to, always name-dropping. Always fighting. Disturbing the peace, disturbing her streets, and he’s not the only one: she could pick up that knife again, teach them all a lesson—

“—Flora won’t stop going on about him. _Oh, Signor Crowley, you haven_ _’t aged a day._ It’s infuriating. He’s probably just hiding the wrinkles under those eyeglasses—”

Right.

Letta leaves the men to their gossiping, making a point of bringing Crowley’s food to him next. There’s no point in him sitting here longer than he has to, with this lot.

“Thanks,” he says, turning away from his contemplation of the wall.

“Sorry about them.” Letta jerks her head over to the Idiot Artist table. “They like to come in here and cause trouble.”

“Ah. I know the type. No use for trouble myself, of course,” he says, with an easy smile that would probably make a priest sound an alarm.

“Of course not.”

He looks past her, to where their voices have gotten louder. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? Of all the people in this room, it’s young Michelangelo there that’s going to be remembered.”

“Well, so is Cain, Signor.”

She has a feeling he’s met her eyes, but it’s hard to tell through the glasses. “That he is,” he says. “That he is.” There’s a weight to the words that Letta doesn’t understand, and she tries to brush it off.

“Anyway, if you don’t mind me saying so, every artist in Rome right now thinks he’s destined for history. If they’re all right, history will be awfully crowded.”

Crowley raises his mug. “I’ll drink to that.”

 _“The fuck did you just say about my sister?”_ one of Merisi’s friends bellows, and Letta closes her eyes. Here it comes. She’s told Donato over and over to not let these men in here, but he’s been taken in by their status. And now it’s her problem. These things always seem to end up being her problem.

“Oh, come on, that’s not what he meant—”

“—Stay out of this, Michele—”

“Or what—”

“Hey!” snaps a man at the next table over. “Either take your fight outside or shut up, we’re trying to eat in peace here!”

Letta’s vision narrows to where Merisi has reached for a plate. “Oh, no,” she mutters, “no you don’t—”

The plate flies.

She doesn’t remember picking up another knife, but there’s one in her hand: it’s sharper than it needs to be for cutting vegetables, and she’s moved before she thinks about it, slamming it down into the tabletop between Merisi’s expensive fingers.

“Pay for your food,” she says, “then get. OUT! And I’ll take some extra for that plate!”

“The cardinal will hear about this—” he starts, and she has enough presence of mind to not say _the cardinal can kiss my ass_ where anyone might hear it.

“He’s not going to have any use for you if I chop one of those fingers off,” she says. “I’m going to count to ten.”

They’re gone by _three,_ but she can still hear them, shouts getting quieter as they walk down the street.

She pulls the knife out of the table.

When she turns back around, Crowley is gone.

* * *

**TWO MONTHS LATER**

How was it?

_Rome is Rome. It’s always spectacular. Come for the art, stay for the street fights, run from the Church._

Ah. The blessing went smoothly?

_Of course. I’m quite charming, you know._

I’m sure. And the young man?

_Fantastic painter, social disaster. Certainly more fun than the previous Michelangelo— we’ll both be able to claim this one as a success. Here, I brought you something. Picked it up on the way back._

Ooh. Let me fetch some glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Search "Caravaggio + artichoke" for a good time


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese’s grandmother had heard this from her sister, who had heard it from her son-in-law, who had been a prison guard. The wealthy man could have been Scottish. Or German. But these tourists are English, so English he shall be.

Therese loves tourists.

Yes, the arrive at her hotel, dusty and cranky from long stagecoach rides, bringing more luggage than is good for them. Yes, they whine and grumble and make suspicious messes on their beds. They expect her to not notice when they sneak unmarried women into their rooms, and the foreigners giggle at her accent as though she’s a particularly precocious child.

But they pay her. And they come with fresh ears that haven’t already heard Therese’s jokes and stories a hundred times. They’re not going to roll their eyes at them like certain neighbors or children she could mention.

Sometimes the tourists _are_ the joke: she’d developed a fine sense, as a child, of when to reveal to cranky British visitors that she did in fact speak English. It hadn’t done her any favors with her mother, but it had been _funny,_ all the same, the way their faces turned colors when they realized she’d understood their moaning and groaning and snide comments the entire time. But now she runs the place, and such behavior is less excusable in an adult.

Instead, she tell stories.

Mr. and Mrs. Nimrod Amesbury, recently arrived from London for three months in Paris, have been masking their unease at being away from home with careful questions. Where to go, what to see, how to behave, who to befriend. Therese tells them. She’s careful to make sure it aligns with what they’ll have heard from their wealthy friends in England: no one wants to return from a summer abroad and have missed something, after all. But they also want to come home with stories and tidbits to seem worldly and impressive. And Therese is happy to provide.

She likes to imagine her stories being retold in English drawing rooms. Changing from mouth to mouth, growing legs and lives.

“You’ll want to see the _Colonne de Juillet,_ of course,” she says, carefully placing two teacups on the table.

“Yes, yes,” Amesbury says, “I’ve read about that. That’s where the Bastille used to stand.”

They’re always more interested in the Bastille than the actual column, or the French kings. Any Englishman wealthy enough to summer in Paris is wealthy enough to fear revolution.

So she smiles at Amesbury as though she is surprised but impressed at his intelligence. “If that interests you, you might want to pass by the old prison, near _Place de la Concorde._ _”_ She lowers her voice as though she’s passing on some secret knowledge. “But be careful if you do. I’ve heard tell of a ghost.”

“A ghost?” Mrs. Amesbury has the look of an elated woman trying to appear frightened.

“It’s a bit of a local story.” Nothing upsetting or _untoward,_ but thrilling enough to be worth telling and retelling. “It was during the Revolution. The… _Comit_ _é de salut,_ ah, the Public Safety, they were searching for invaders. Enemies. A wealthy-looking Englishman fell into their clutches.” Probably an Englishman. Therese’s grandmother had heard this from her sister, who had heard it from her son-in-law, who had been a prison guard. The wealthy man could have been Scottish. Or German. But these tourists are English, so English he shall be.

“They locked him in prison to await his sentence. He was chained, in a locked cell, behind those thick stone walls. There was no escape. And yet…” she spreads her hands a little, and Mrs. Amesbury’s eyes widen.

“It’s not a haunting if he escaped,” Mr. Amesbury says, looking disappointed.

“Oh, that is not the story. This Englishman didn’t blubber or cry like the others. He only stood, watching as the guards passed, with unsettling still eyes. It became colder and colder around his cell— so cold that the other prisoners, even the guards, started shivering. When the time came for his execution, a guard entered his cell—” she waits until they lean forward, “—and the Englishman disappeared.”

Mrs. Amesbury is enjoying this. Therese is sure she doesn’t believe a word of it, but she’s having a good time all the same. “Disappeared?”

“Not only that. The guard stood in the empty cell, inexplicably dressed in the Englishman’s clothes. The others hadn’t noticed the change, just knew the man in that cell was to be executed, so they hauled him out. The poor guard screamed and screamed that he was their…” she can’t recall the word in English for a moment. “He was their fellow,” close enough, “but they didn’t believe him, because every man facing death tries to scream his way out of it. They drew him closer and closer to the guillotine, and he was terrified, sure he was about to meet a horrible end, when the executioner looked at him and said, _is that you, Clement?_ ”

In some versions of the story, the guard dies, only for his friends to recognize his head as it rolled. It depends on the audience. With English, it’s best that he escapes, so that there are no hard feelings. War is not so far in the past that she wants to risk offending anyone’s patriotic loyalties.

“The man remembered walking into the cell, and then nothing. The other guards never saw him change clothes, and he didn’t remember doing so. My grandfather worked in the prison—” or at least, her grandfather knew a man who worked there— “and he was convinced that the Englishman wasn’t arrested by the Committee of Public Safety at all. He thought that he had died in that cell decades earlier, framed for a murder. Made stronger by the blood and rage of the crowd outside, he sent a guard to die for a crime he hadn’t committed, in revenge for his own death.” She waits until they look just unsettled enough until she smiles. “Now last year, the king added thousands of pieces to the Louvre, you simply must go see them…”

Her grandfather had had lots of tales like this: Therese has been picking and choosing the best bits for decades. It's been a long time since she's wondered about the truth. Her stories are trees grown from a very small seed of reality. 

But wouldn't it be odd, she thinks, to have been that Englishman. To have been turned into something so alien, without ever knowing about it. 

She never wonders if legend will remember her. 

* * *

**SEVENTY YEARS EARLIER**

Crowley.

_Yes?_

You know that wasn’t the Bastille, right?

_Wasn’t it?_

The Bastille was torn down three years ago.

_Huh._

You might want to know that, in case your bosses ever ask you questions about this mess you’re taking credit for.

_Well. Thanks._

…

 _You know, just once it’d be nice if they’d send me a commendation for something I’d_ actually done _. Like the Popish Plot— it got a bit out of hand, I’ll grant you, but it was good work. Hastur is all about planting doubt and lust in men’s minds, but you don’t need to when you can get so much farther with_ I hear the Catholics are up to something _and_ _they just damn themselves, easy as pie— ah. Sorry._

It’s alright. It’s far easier to be damned than it is to be saved. I suppose that must be by design— you must put the work in, you know. It’s easier to be bad than good.

_Right. Of course. It’s not your fault if they’re sinning— say, I was in Edinburgh recently. Nearly made me sick._

Flatterer.

_It’s the truth._

Well, thank you. I find Glasgow rather stifling as well, you'll be pleased to know. Care for another crepe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Behold, my slow mental breakdown as I tried to make the Bastille scene make any sense](https://runawaymarbles.tumblr.com/post/186543453697/anthora-09-runawaymarbles-runawaymarbles)
> 
> [The Popish Plot](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Popish_Plot)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krisztina Vadas really meant to stop by the church sooner. But there was the move, and the shop, and the drama with Aunt Gabriella and the lump that turned out to just be a rather nasty pimple, and the arrangements to move her cousin József and his kids here from Szeged— but then last week she’d lost an entire Saturday. She’d think it was just the stress messing with her mind, but it turned out that everyone had lost that entire Saturday. Nothing left but the impression of fire and fish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going with book canon on the year of the Apocalypse.

Krisztina Vadas really meant to stop by the church sooner. But there was the move, and the shop, and the drama with Aunt Gabriella and the lump that turned out to just be a rather nasty pimple, and the arrangements to move her cousin József and his kids here from Szeged— but then last week she’d lost an entire Saturday. She’d think it was just the stress messing with her mind, but it turned out that _everyone_ had lost that entire Saturday. Nothing left but the impression of fire and fish.

So she decided that a return to the fold might be overdue.

If the woman who greeted her begrudges her the wait, she doesn’t show it. The tour has been going on for twenty minutes, and Kris has seen just about everything the church has to offer, including the bathroom and the coat closet.

“It’s still the original floor,” Mrs-Bryant-but-call-me-Addie says, gesturing to the dark stone. “We left the damage in place, as a tribute.”

She seems to be waiting for the question. “A tribute to what?”

“The whole building was reduced to rubble in ‘41. Bombed. The only bomb to hit this area that night, in fact.”

“That’s terrible luck.” Some might even view that as the hand of God, and rebuild somewhere else. Kris glances nervously at the walls.

“Well that’s what everyone thought, of course. Until they looked closer.” Addie steers her along the side, past the pews, giving her a good look at the deep crack in the floor. “Inside the church were the bodies of three Nazi spies. As though God caught them in His house and decided to bring it down on their heads.”

Kris imagines a Nazi’s head bleeding into the crack. She’s not sure how she feels about that.

“Wow,” she says. “That’s certainly something.”

“It is, isn’t it? Oh— Fran— look, this is Krisztina, she owns that new gardening shop, I’m just giving her the tour— Fran teaches the Sunday School.”

“Kris, please.” She offers a hand. Fran looks to be around her mother’s age, though Kris’s mother would never be caught wearing sandals in church.

“Pleasure to meet you. Addie, you’ve left off the best part of the story again.”

Addie crosses her arms. “Well, I hardly think—”

“She never believes me, but I saw it with my own eyes,” Fran says to Kris, leading her back towards the entrance. Kris follows, because if she doesn’t, she’s afraid she’s going to get a tour of every item in the supply closet. “Most everyone went down to the tube stations, but I’d gotten lost. Separated from my family. For some reason I got it in my head that the safest place to go was the church— I must have been about eight, at the time. A car pulled up, I remember that very clearly, because I was so relieved— I thought someone else might have gotten lost too, and could give me a ride.

“I was about a half block down the road there—” she points, though since she’s pointing at a solid wall, it doesn’t really help much— “When a plane passed overhead. A bomb hit the church dead on— loudest, brightest thing I ever saw. Oh, Lord. And then it was gone— the whole building, just like that. Nothing on either side was touched. But the strangest part was that there were two men, standing in the rubble. I could see them perfectly, in the light from the burning pews.”

That seems impossible, but Kris is too polite to say so. “Nazis?”

“No. The whole church gone in a firey instant, Nazis dead, but these two didn’t even have to pick themselves up off the ground. They just walked away to the car, calm as you please.”

Fran and Kris step out into the courtyard, and pause to admire some well-tended bushes. Kris hopes they don’t start asking her for free gardening help until the shop is running a little smoother.

“Who were they, then?” she asks gamely.

“Angels, of course. They took out the Germans that had been sneaking through our city, preparing who knows what kind of damage. That’s why we were never invaded. We had angels looking out for us the whole time.”

 _How nice for London,_ Kris thinks, bitter. _Shame there weren_ _’t any angels to spare for Budapest._

She doesn’t need to get upset over it. It's a crazy story told by a woman remembering a traumatic time. They rebuilt instead of moving on: of course everyone here is obsessed with their own mythologies. That sense of importance.

There are thousands of wartime anecdotes just like this. Kris went to Budapest for the first time a few months ago, but she’d already felt like she knew it from all the stories her parents had told her. Her mother had carried with her the Szechenyi bridge and Soviet bullets in Kossuth Square. Fran had this church. 

No point thinking about it further.

And yet, Kris can’t stop thinking about it when she returns to the shop.

The real reason Britain wasn’t invaded was that it’s an island, right? She’s not a historian, but she doesn’t recall hearing of German’s naval prowess.The dead Nazis would be a matter of public record, surely, she can check—

“Excuse me,” a man in sunglasses says, stopping in front of the register.

“May I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for a new plant mister? Someone broke mine.”

“Under the geraniums.”

“Ah.”

She's being cynical. It's a nice story, and whether it's true or not, she's sure Fran believes it. It doesn’t hurt anyone. And Hell, maybe Fran is right— it’s not though Kris can explain all the weird shit in the news. The Soviet Union fell. Thatcher might be on her way out. Everyone lost a Saturday. God being on England’s side would make just as much sense as anything else around here, while the world shifts around her. 

It would certainly explain a lot of history. 

The man drops a plant mister on the counter, and she rings him up.

Idly, Kris wonders if he believes in angels.

* * *

**FORTY-NINE YEARS EARLIER**

Where have you been?

_Asleep, mostly._

Asleep?

_Woke up when Hastur arrived to give me a commendation for the Titanic, and to tell me to make sure a certain man was at Schiller_ _'s_ _delicatessen at the right time._

Ah.

_He didn_ _’t tell me what would become of it. I’m not sure he even knew. But look— there’s cars, now! Hop in, I can take you back to the bookshop, if you like._

Crowley….

_…_

_…_

_Yeah?_

… It’s good to see you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hungary, 1956](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hungarian_Revolution_of_1956)
> 
> If dinosaurs are fake in the Good Omens universe, then the [Gavrilo Princips sandwich](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/gavrilo-princips-sandwich-79480741/) story can be real (or at least closer to the truth.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Sarah and Cath are more than one drink in. Have been for hours— they’d all been let out of work early, since nothing was getting done. Everyone was too busy watching American die on live telly. 
> 
> So they’d gone back to their flat and broken out the booze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long because I wrote a long thing about Sarah and Anathema, and then I realized that belonged in its own story more than this one. So that'll happen someday. 
> 
> I'm sorry this one isn't funny? It just kind of happened. Next chapter will be funny. 
> 
> Warnings for 9/11

They’re four hours into their messed up little vigil when Sarah says, “do you believe in the afterlife?”

It’s not an appropriate question to ask, maybe, but she’d just gotten off the phone with her near-hysterical little brother and she needs to think about something else. His girlfriend’s got family in New York, and they haven’t called yet. _I should have been able to fix it,_ he’d been saying, as though a twenty-two year old uni student was supposed to have done what the American government had not.

And Sarah and Cath are more than one drink in. Have been for hours— they’d all been let out of work early, since nothing was getting done. Everyone was too busy watching Americans die on live telly.

So they’d gone back to their flat and broken out the booze. The television is on, but they'd muted it after the first hour. 

“Like, Heaven?” Cath asks.

They're showing the dust cloud again. 

“Yeah, like Heaven.”

“I don’t know. Never really went for the… Church stuff. My grandpa always swore he’d met a demon, though.”

“Yeah?”

They haven’t known each other very long, and have been flatsharing for even less. Sarah doesn’t know what the protocol is for asking if her grandfather was crazy.

Cath rotates on the sofa so that she’s leaning against the arm, facing Sarah instead of the screen. “I don’t know how much he actually remembered, or how much is just what his dad told him. But the story goes that when he was a little boy, he and his dad— Paul— were at a bar somewhere. It was— I don’t know, the late 1800s, so I guess kids were allowed in bars. Anyway, grandpa always said that Paul had led a blameless life until then. Church on Sundays, donated to charity, the lot. But he’d _come on hard times—_ _”_ she says this last bit in a passable attempt at an old man’s voice. “As these things always go. Anyways. They’re at some pub, and this man sits down next to them. Peculiar man, grandpa says. They’d never seen him before, and it’s not like it was a big town. They’d have noticed him. He was more expensively dressed than anyone grandpa had ever seen. Introduced himself as Mr. Crowley.”

“Sounds very demonic.”

Cath snorts, taking another drink. It’s not cold out, but she pulls another blanket down from the back of the sofa. “Or something.”

“So what did this, uh, Mr. Crowley do?” Sarah tries to toss her empty beer can into the recycling. She misses.

“They struck up a conversation. Do you live here, just passing through myself, that sort of thing. And at one point Mr. Crowley looks over at the bar’s till, which was open for some reason, and he says, _it_ _’s as if the owner is asking to be robbed.”_

Sarah should get up and retrieve the erstwhile can, but getting off the couch is a difficult proposition. “That’s demonic?”

“It’s the _way_ he said it that was sinister, apparently. Made old great-gramps look over at it, all that money, which had taken on a brighter glow. He didn’t steal it. Not then. But this man Crowley kept appearing for the next several days. And every time, there was something... nefarious that could be done. Grandpa wasn’t there for all of them, but Paul talked about it, later, when he was in his cups. A man’s carriage overturned and he was knocked unconscious, all his stuff there for the picking, and there was Crowley by the side of the road. A new gambling den opened, and there was Crowley, happy to show Paul the way there. He disappeared after about a fortnight, but the next thing anyone knows, Paul’s a thief and a gambler and drinking away his guilt over both those things. Then he’s stealing to pay for his gambling habit. Two months later, he gets arrested shaking down that pub. The one with the open till.”

“He wasn’t just trying to promote his new… wherever people went to gamble in the late nineteenth century?” They had words for it. Surely. But Sarah’s just coming up _casino,_ and that doesn’t seem right.

On television, the plane flies again. It looks so distant, from here. She tries not to think about how many people's deaths they're witnessing in that clip. 

“If he was, he was a shit manager. The never saw him in town again.”

“So what made him think demon, instead of shady guy with a false name?”

Cath shrugs. “The way he would appear and disappear. And his hair was a weird color. I don’t know. Most likely, Paul wanted to blame something else for ruining his life, and Grandpa wanted to believe there was a reason his dad turned out to be a shithead.”

“Easier to believe that evil is always someone else’s fault,” Sarah says quietly. She wants to call Adam again, in case Riley’s uncle has gotten in touch, but they’ll let her know when it happens. It won’t do to ring them when they’re waiting for a more important call.

Another building falls. The ticker says _7 World Trade Center,_ and this time it's not a replay. 

They should turn it off. Go to bed. But she's not ready to face tomorrow: it's going to be a different world than the one they woke up in this morning. Sarah doesn’t know _how,_ yet— but she’s sure it’ll become clear, in the next weeks and months and years. Robbie from work was talking about how the Americans are going to have to go to war, and if they do, the British will go with them, and she thinks of Adam and his toy soldiers and—

“Maybe it’s just easier to believe in _something,_ ” Cath says.

She’s right enough about that.

* * *

**ONE HUNDRED AND SIX YEARS EARLIER**

~~_My dear Crowley_ ~~

~~_Dear_ ~~

~~_Crowley—_ ~~

~~_It is now June the 5th, 1895. As you can see, I'_ _ve_ _come by your quarters to find you still asleep. As per a rather bloody telegram from Hell, I’ve tempted a man into a life of petty crime and alcoholism, and then filled out the appropriate paperwork, so that should keep your bosses away from you for a little bit, but I’d really appreciate it if you woke up soon. A bucket of water, a speaking trumpet, and threats to your corporation have all failed to_ ~~

~~_Please wake up soon, it_ _’s rather tedious without you_ ~~

~~_I spent a whole week up north, so the next time they try and send me to either of the Americas you_ _’d better go inste_ ~~

~~_I miss_ ~~

Mr. C,

Took care of some business. The appropriate paperwork has been filed. I’ll be expecting recompense from you as per our Arrangement; please come see me as soon as you are able.

Sincerely,

Mr. F


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They weren’t welcomed, exactly. I realized later that they must have been queer, but there were other things as well that made people not like them. Mr. Crowley dressed like a man twenty years younger who was trying to be a rocker. And he always wore sunglasses, which my dad thought meant he was stoned all the time. All of which was nothing compared to Mr. Fell, who, so says neighborhood gossip, responded to the Deac’s inquiry about when they’d be attending church with a long lecture on the Bible. Him, lecturing the Deacon. The phrases ‘intent,’ ‘original Hebrew,’ and ‘word of mouth’ came up quiet a bit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New username, same nonsense.

The night here is never really quiet.

The Channel is always breathing in the distance. Closer is the occasional sound from the neighbors’ houses, the odd car on the road, Davis’s father talking back to the radio. When Davis was a boy, he used to lie very still in bed, imagining everyone he could think of on a mental map: his mum’s footsteps creaking in the bathroom, the distinctive sound of Allie’s dad’s truck on the street outside, the Smiths next door, the Taylors next to them, and so on.

He used to consider two neighbors in particular, and wonder what they were up to.

He couldn’t have imagined the truth.

Well. He could have imagined it. But he wouldn’t have believed it. He never believed in Father Christmas either.

Now, he looks at the night sky, and wonders.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Brad says, sitting down next to him on the porch.

“Hmm?”

“That you left me alone with your parents for half the afternoon.” He laughs at Davis’s expression. “It was fine. I saw a lot more of your baby photos.”

“Oh, God.”

“It’s good! I think it’s good. Showing baby photos is what you’re supposed to do when your son brings someone home.” He might be right, but Davis would have to unbury his face from his hands to admit it. “So where did you go?”

“To return something to a neighbor.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

He picks up his hands. “To return something to a neighbor.”

“I didn’t realize you’d borrowed anything.”

Davis snorts a bit. “I actually borrowed it twenty years ago. It was… overdue.” Brad spreads his hands, as if to say, _you think?_ “Did I ever tell you about Russell and Scott? They were boys a little older than me who lived down the street. Not my biggest fans. Made my life pretty miserable, actually. But I was always faster than them. So they were a nuisance, but I could always get away. Until they got bicycles. I didn’t have one of my own— never learned how to ride. So they’d… well. You know. I really hated them. And those bikes.”

“I can imagine,” Brad says quietly. His own childhood hadn’t been a walk in the park, either, Davis knows.

“There were— are— these neighbors. Mr. Crowley, and Mr. Fell. They’d moved to town a few months before. They weren’t welcomed. I realized later that they must be queer, but that was really just the tip of the iceberg. Mr. Crowley dressed like a man twenty years younger who was really proud of his garage band. And he always wore sunglasses, which my dad thought meant he was stoned all the time. All of which was nothing compared to Mr. Fell, who, so says neighborhood gossip, responded to the Deac’s inquiry about when they’d be attending church with a long lecture on the Bible. Him, lecturing the Deacon. The phrases ‘intent,’ ‘original Hebrew,’ and ‘word of mouth’ came up quiet a bit. Also, there was a rumor that there were a lot of occult books in their house.”

Brad laughs a little. “I’d love to meet them. They sound like my kind of blokes.”

“Mm. But see, all that’s just what the adults said. At school, word was, if you wanted something you weren’t supposed to have, Mr. Crowley could get it for you. Pot and the like, obviously— my friend Allie’s older sister got a full year’s worth of birth control pills from him, somehow, and one kid— Kenneth, I think? He was a few years below me— he got something like twelve whoopie cushions. So I figured they’d be the best place to go to get something to defend myself. God, I was so scared— I went to their house via everyone’s back yards, in case someone saw me. Wrote this whole speech in my head about who I was and what I wanted and why, but when I got there and Mr. Fell opened the door, I forgot it all. You know when people are like _can I help you,_ and you know they just want you to go away?”

“Yeah.”

“That was Mr. Fell, I remember that perfectly. So I sort of stammered that I was looking for Mr. Crowley, and Fell said he was around in the garden.” Allie had thought all the mums hated Mr. Crowley because his garden was better than theirs. The only thing he’d noted at the time was that it was indeed beautiful: looking at it today, he’d realized that a lot of those plants should not actually grow in the South Downs.

“So I went around to the back of the house, and I hear this bloke yelling, I shit you not, Brad, at his plants— _if you think I won_ _’t pull you up by the roots and make you into compost,_ that sort of thing.” He’d definitely said _rootsss._ Davis had thought he’d had a lisp. “So I’m standing there frozen in fear, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into and about to turn around and run home, when he comes around the corner— still dressed in nice black clothes, by the way, for _gardening_ — and he sees me and I kind of went _aaaahhhH!_ And he kind of went _ssssss!_ And we both were confused for a second. Then he asked me what I wanted, and I told him, _revenge,_ and he was suddenly very friendly.”

Across the street, the Andersons turn their lights out.

“Did you get it?”

“Yeah. He gave me his bolt cutters. Which— as an adult, saying that, I realize that maybe giving bolt cutters to an eleven year old and telling him to do property damage might not be the thing to do. But he said to return them when I didn’t need them anymore. So I cut the locks on Russell and Scott’s bikes one day, shoved them into the creek. When they dug them out and finally got the mud off the gears, I cut the spokes. When they replaced the wheels, I disabled the gears, and so on. I ended up sneaking out of class and throwing at least one of those bikes into the Channel. Eventually they were back on foot, and I could outrun them again. They were—” he shouldn’t laugh, but he does, a bit. “They were so angry. But they never figured out it was me. I was afraid to carry the bolt cutters in public, in case they put two and two together, so I kept telling myself it wasn’t safe to return them. Never mind that I’d already smuggled them to school twice. And then I kept thinking that I might need them again. What if they got new bikes, what if they locked my backpack on one of their lockers, what if what if what if. And then at some point it was too embarrassing to bring them back, since it had been so long, and then I went to uni and forgot. Until this afternoon, when mum asked me to get the rest of my stuff out of the attic, and I thought returning them would be a nice excuse to get out of the house.”

“They still live here, then?”

“Yeah, down the road. In the house with the nice garden.” It hadn’t occurred to him that they wouldn’t until he was halfway there. They should have been in their seventies by now, at least, and twenty years is a long time to live in a town you didn't grow up in, where the neighbors don't particularly like you. 

“Maybe it _was_ the thing to do,” Brad says.

“Hmm?”

“If a bullied little queer boy showed up and asked me for help, I’d ask if he’d talked to his parents and teachers, but if that failed, I’m not sure I wouldn’t do what Mr. Crowley did. Teach him to stand up for himself in whatever way he can.”

Davis wonders sometimes what trouble Scott and Russell got into at home. If by doing what he did, he had just deflected the bullying towards targets that weren’t as good at running away. Made everything worse, instead of ending it. After today, he thinks he might be right.

“Maybe,” is all he says. He doesn’t feel like making it into a Discussion.

“What did they say when you came back?”

They hadn’t answered the door. He’d have left the bolt cutters and run, but he felt he owed them an explanation at that point. And he’d wanted to stay out of the house. And he wanted to see how they were doing. How they survived it here.

So when he heard a laugh come from the back yard, he’d weighed the pros and cons of bothering them in their own time before he’d walked towards it, practicing a casual hello and self deprecating joke about returning things late—

And then he’d started to come around the side of the house, and caught side of them, and stopped dead.

At first he’d thought that they were lying on picnic blankets, but when Mr. Fell had sat up, it had become clear they were long wings stretching out from his back.

“—Absolutely wrong,” Mr. Fell had been saying. “He and Jonathan were in love.”

“You never met them,” Mr. Crowley said. He was still sprawled on the grass, but one of his wings curled up a little. Black, to Mr. Fell’s white.

“I don’t have to,” Fell had sniffed. “I’m an angel, I know love when I see it.”

“Do you? _Do you?_ ”

 _“Yes._ ” He had reached over and grabbed Crowley’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it, and looking back on it it’s nice that Davis wasn’t wrong about their relationship, even if he was wrong about… everything else about them. At the time, he’d thought, bizarrely, _Phillip Pullman wishes he were me,_ and then he’d wondered what angels did to someone caught spying so he’d taken a couple step backward, stomped a bit, and yelled “Mr. Crowley? Mr. Fell? Are you home?”

“We’re in the garden,” Fell had called, and Davis had tried to be not afraid. He’d tried to convince himself that he had been seeing things before, because when he entered the garden there were no wings in sight and Misters Crowley and Fell looked like they always did— and he only realizes how how odd _that_ was, too. No one looks exactly how they did twenty years ago. People in their seventies don’t just look like they did in their fifties. But at the time he’d managed to believe he had misheard, the light and shadows had been playing tricks on him, and that he was talking to two entirely human entities when he explained about the bolt cutters and that he was terribly sorry to have had them this long, they’d probably replaced them by now but it seemed like the type of thing he should return.

“I didn’t know we’d ever _had_ bolt cutters,” Fell had said, rather pointedly.

Crowley, on the other hand, had smiled. “Took care of those bicycle bullies, did you?” He’d taken them back when Davis held them out, put them down somewhere out of sight, and then Fell had asked him what brought him back to town in a clear attempt at polite chit-chat. Davis had explained about Brad and his parents.

“Don’t worry,” Fell said. “Brad and your parents will get along fine. I’m glad you don’t need the bolt cutters anymore.”

It struck Davis as an odd thing to say, but maybe anything they could have said that would seem odd. 

Fell had said _I_ _’m an angel,_ as though Crowley isn’t. Between the hissing and the black wings, Davis is fairly certain he can guess the difference.

And if those two can work it out— well. Then what’s stopping Davis? He reaches out, taking Brad’s hand, even knowing that Lousia Dreyer could be watching from next door.

“Davis?” Brad asks.

“Hmm?”

“You just went quiet. What did they say?”

“Oh. They laughed it off. They’d replaced those bolt cutters years ago, I’m sure, but they were glad I was doing well. I told them about you, they wish you the best with my parents.”

Brad squeezes his hand. “That’s it? You didn’t check and see if there were any occult books in the house?”

Davis smiles at the night sky.

“Nothing else.”

* * *

**AT THE SAME TIME**

_…so I told her how to bring down the other girl’s instagram page. Don’t look at me like that— it’s hardly demonic. It might even be good for her._

I’m just wondering if all the children are going to tell each other that you’re some kind of master hacker, as well as king of the black market.

 _I_ am _a master hacker. If any of the parents come sniffing about, we_ _’ll send them away, same as we always do. In the meantime, I don’t think we’ve ever cared much about what stories children tell each other._

I suppose not. It’s not as though humans will ever know the true story.

_Do we?_

Mm. Good question. Drink?

_Sure._

…

…

_Aziraphale?_

Yes?

_…_

…

_I'm_ _glad we made it. Whatever the story was._

_…_

_…_

I love you, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Seven people who didn't know what stories they were telling, and one who knew what was up and said nothing. 
> 
> Thank you all for jumping through time with me

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [Tumblr](https://runawaymarbles.tumblr.com/)


End file.
